Fighting Hard
by lea.cielo
Summary: And the worst thing about everything is that he doesn't see this as the down side, he sees this as a salvation.


Title: Fighting Hard

Author:

Disclaimer: I don't own 'House M.D'...

Rating: K+

Summary: And the worst thing about everything is that he doesn't see this as the down side, he sees this as a salvation.

Author's Note: This fic is placed after 6x21. I have no beta so all mistakes are mine... If there's a grammar error pls forgive me but English is not my mother tongue...

~ Fighting Hard ~

He sits numb on his couch. Sound of a clock ticking is the only thing he hears. He stares at the turned off TV. Screen is black, black and empty. He laughs at the irony... Just the way his life looks at the moment.

Car rushes past his building, headlights send a ray of light into his darkened apartment only for a few seconds. His eyes squints. Too much brightness. The darkness is better now, it suits his current mood. Bottle and an empty glass next to his feet catch his attention, again. He's fighting so hard not to give up. Because he knows that one sip of scotch leads to admitting the defeat and that will surely end with few pills of Vicodine down his throat.

He fights so hard.

But, also, he's so close to give up.

The pain is back and he presses his thigh, tilting his head back against the cushions and biting his lower lip till he tastes blood. He wants to scream but the sound is stuck in his throat.

The pain is so strong, so strong it sends shivers down his spine.

How did he get here? Again? Isn't he suppose to be happy, half way to the moon, enjoying life?

"How?", he shouts to the empty apartment.

How he got here, in this place of darkness and misery, place where everything falls apart and dies within a minute after he touches it? Place where he's still alone and unhappy when everyone around him are quite opposite.

Is it a curse or is it a choice?

The pain increases and he silently screams through his closed mouth. Nails dig into the firm material of his couch and he, once again, fights hard.

His eyes are closed and he breathes heavy, trying to think about something pleasant. The first thing that runs through his mind is she. Her eyes, her smile, her arms wrapped around his neck as he hungrily kisses her. She brings joy but at the same time she's the source of his pain.

His minds wanders to that time when she was his, to THE night, to the way she offered herself to him, the way she enveloped around him, the vowels she moaned at him. The taste of her blueberry lip-gloss on his lips afterwards and the feeling of her sweaty skin pressing onto his. She was his in every way he wanted her that night, that only night God-knows how many years ago when she was his.

But that was past and this is present. And in present she belonged to someone else. In the same way he had her that one night **he** has her every night and everything he wish they had - **he** has.

And he'll never know if that thought was the final drop to his already filled cup but the speed and the way his hand cleared everything off his coffee table will be something that his mind will register. Trickles of sweat appear on his forehead as he puts the glass and the bottle on the small table in front of him. His hand shivers as he pours amber liquid into it.

It burns. It burns the path all the way to his empty stomach.

And the worst thing about everything is that he doesn't see this as the down side, he sees this as a salvation.

A knock on his front door interrupts his enjoyment. He ignores it, it wouldn't be the first time, and drowns the rest of the glass.

And refills it.

To the top.

The annoying knocking returns and he wants to groan. Emptying the glass till the last drop, he stands up and limps across the room to the front door. Without bothering to look through the peep-hole he opens it and stops dead in his track.

"Still not interested in being just friends..." He says in a mocking and way too quick tone before he closes the door.

Her hand makes a crushing sound as it collides with the wooden surface.

"Wait!"

There's something in her voice that for a second sounded like a despair but he decides to ignore it. He opens the door widely again, looking at her angrily. She's in the same outfit she wore when she came into his office tonight to tell him 'she just wants them to be friends', and her brief-case tells him she came here straight from her office.

And he can't help to notice, again, how purple looks good on her.

Her eyes bores into his as he waits for her to tell him why she's here.

But the only thing he gets from her is silence. She has no idea how or what to say and somehow, in the middle of this game he had enough.

"Cuddy, why are you here?"

"Have you been drinking?" Tone, just like her face shows shock. Shock and disappointment because she, just like him, knows what happens after few shots of scotch.

"Listen, if you're here to yell at me or to lecture me I have better things to do you know..."

She bows her head. He's not sure why.

A car rushes by, showering just a part of her face with a light. He sees a line on her forehead, the line that only appears when she's worried or troubled by something. The light is gone and so does his observation.

His hand grips tighter the entrance door as his patience slowly leaves his body.

"Lisa...", he drags out her name only to abruptly stop.

She looks up at him, eyes wide open. He **never** calls her that, never by her first name. In fact, she can't remember the last time he ever called her like this.

He sees shock in her eyes and he's positive she can see the similar thing in his own. The second he spoke out loud her name a realisation of what he had done reached his brain and he knew it was too late to correct the mistake.

He never called her or anyone else by their first name because that would mean those people meant something much deeper to him. And showing his affection only could do him wrong.

In the past it always has.

And now as he watches her, the way she process this new information and the way his only word envelopes her mind, creating complete chaos, crushing and suffocating her inside like a python who wrapped itself around it's victim, in her eyes he could see she's slowly falling apart.

Right on his doormat.

Her movements are fast, just like that car that rushed by few minutes ago, and before he's aware that she made a decision, she's kissing him. Hard. Demanding.

He feels traces of her tears on his cheek but he doesn't say a thing. He's returning her kiss. Ravishing battle of lips. Rough game of touching hands and hungry mouths.

He doesn't feel regret for stealing another's man women. It's not like he hadn't done it in the past. There's no regret and remorse. He doesn't care. He never does.

And as she moans into his mouth and arches her back, he struggles to move them away from his front door and prying eyes of his neighbours. Her sweater is half-way opened and his hand already made it to her breast.

She bites his neck and he knows the fight for power just started.

But he knows he'll never lose.

He pulls her lips back in a bruising kiss, biting her lower lips in a process. She moans...

Cause he always fights hard.

~ ThE eNd ~


End file.
